Thursday, May 23, 2019

We
last saw Vince staggering around on the desolate desert not much caring whether
he lived or died. Will someone show up to save him? Read on.

*****

SPLENDID ISOLATION

I woke at first light wrapped in warm
blankets and shaded by an awning of scrap canvas stretched between two boulders.
Something soft and wet was pressed against my cracked lips. I sucked on it like
a blind baby finding a tit.

Despite the words, I sucked the rag dry of
the sweetest nectar known to man… water. I tried to sit up, but discovered I
was too weak to even lift my head. “Wheream... I?” My voice sounded like a bullfrog with a whiskey problem.

The young man smiled, revealing teeth
brighter than Sweetie’s. I realized he was not Davy; this youth had a little
bulk to his frame, although he was as spectacularly handsome at that miserable
little shit. Dark curls fell across a broad forehead as yet unmarked by life. Turquoise
eyes, somewhere between blue and green, smiled along with a broad, sensual
mouth.

“You’re safe. You just need to rest and
gain some strength, and then we’ll get you to shelter.”

“How’d you find me?”

“That’s what I do,” the youth responded in
a light baritone. “I find people in trouble out here. You’d be surprised how
many there are.”

“Not if they’re as stupid as I am,” I
grumbled, accepting more water from a canteen.

“Folks get insulated from the desert by
air-conditioned cars and forget how dangerous it is.”

“Can you show me the way me back to
civilization?”

“Sure. As soon as you get your strength
back. Right now, I want you to eat some trail mix. We’ll try bacon and eggs
later.”

Trail mix had always tasted like confetti,
but the stuff this kid fed me was ambrosia. After that feast, I dropped back
into a restless sleep. It wasn’t until afternoon that I felt strong enough to put
a good, solid meal under my belt. Then I took notice of our surroundings. We were
camped on a steep hill crowned by two large boulders. There was nothing but
nothing for miles in every direction. I wondered how the dark-haired youngster
managed to carry my dead weight up the slope of the hill.

Seeing I was awake, the boy abandoned
chopping scraggly bits of wood with a hatchet to check on me. “Feeling better
now?”

“Yeah. Think I’ll make it. When can we
leave?”

“Not till tomorrow. You oughta be in
better shape by then.”

“Why not now? Hell, we ought to make it by
sundown.”

The boy looked at me with dawning
comprehension. “I’m sorry, man. I don’t have a vehicle. You’ve gotta walk out.”

My heart sank. My dismay must have shown. The
kid laid a hand on my arm. “Don’t worry. You’ll be better provisioned this
time, and you’ll know where you’re going. By the way, my name’s Skye. Skye
Hardesty.” The youth offered a strong hand that reminded me how weak I was. “I
know you’re Vince because I looked in your billfold when I wasn’t sure what the
situation was. Hope you don’t mind.”

I shook my head. “Sky? Like that up
there,” I asked, pointing upward.

“Skye with an ‘e’. My brother got a normal
name, Karl, but they tagged me Skye. Go figure.” The kid was not only good-looking;
he was also likable. “By the way, your wallet’s empty. Just has a driver’s
license and a couple of pictures.”

I swore aloud. “That thieving son of a
bitch! I had five hundred and some credit cards. I’m gonna wring his scrawny neck!”
That elicited a slew of questions, all of which I answered, laying out my story…minus
the romp in the truck bed. Skye agreed there were some pretty bad people in
this world.

It grew uncomfortable even under the
protective awning in the hottest part of the afternoon, but my rescuer had
chosen well. Our hillock caught whatever faint breeze the thermal heat stirred
across the desert. Skye suddenly reappeared from wherever he’d been and hovered
over me. The kid hadn’t even broken a sweat. Used to it, I guessed.

“I wanta clean you up some. We don’t have
a lot of water, but I’ve got enough to sponge you off. It’ll keep you a little
cooler, too. Okay?”

I licked lips that felt almost normal and
nodded. “Sure. But I can do it.”

“If you’ll put up with me getting kinda
personal, I’ll do it. I won’t waste as much water.”

So I sprawled atop my blanket wondering if
I could control myself as the boy carefully removed my clothing. Couldn’t
afford to scare the kid off…he was my ticket out of this jam. I watched as the
young man wet a rag, rubbed it against a small scrap of soap, and set about
washing me from head to foot with water from his seemingly bottomless canteen.

When he was finished, Skye sat cross-legged
and looked me over carefully. Searching for spots he missed, I guessed. Any
though of covering myself quickly died as the evaporating moisture cooled my
sunburned flesh.

“You sure are a handsome man,” Skye
ventured shyly after a moment.

“Never thought of myself like that.”

“Not pretty, but handsome.”

I laughed aloud. “But you are…pretty, I
mean.”

The boy glanced away. He couldn’t have
been more than eighteen…twenty, max, but he carried a maturity about him. It
was probably his serious demeanor.

After a moment’s silence, he spoke again. “I’ve
heard about that place. That Eagle Bar you mentioned.” Skye turned those
sometimes blue, sometimes green eyes on me. “I hear it’s one of those bear
places.”

I smiled. “Yep, a bona fide cave full of
bears, most of them big and hairy.”

“Like you.”

“Like me,” I confirmed. But his close
examination cut off my dissertation on the bear subculture of the United
States.

“Who are you, Sigmund Freud?” I laughed,
intrigued by the trace of bitterness in his voice.

“No, just a guy with problems of his own.”

“What kind of problems do you have? You’re
just a kid.”

“Sometimes that’s when they show up, when
you’re a kid,” Skye answered. Then he turned those agate eyes on me again. “You’re
a handsome man,” he repeated. Skye put a timid hand to my chest. “Sorry,” he
said, jerking away quickly. “Just wanted to see what it felt like.”

That’s okay. I don’t mind. Like it, as a
matter of fact.”

Skye leaned over and gently laid his head
on my chest. After a while, I realized he was working up his courage.

“It’s okay, kid.”

Instantly, he embraced me with a hunger I’d
rarely seen. The world sort of went crazy as we became wrapped up in one
another. When it was over, we sat side by side without touching.

“Feel better now?” he asked. “I figured you
needed it. I…I don’t do that with everybody.”

“Thanks, kid. You’re right. I needed it. And
it was great. How about you? You need any help?”

Skye slowly shook his head. “Not right
now.”

We fell silent as we looked out at the desert
below the hill.

I shivered. “Such desolation.”

He leaned his shoulder against mine. “Splendid
desolation.”

“If you say so.”

He looked at me and smiled. “I do. It is.”

I stretched out on the blanket and closed
my eyes to avoid noticing again how handsome the kid was. The next thing I knew,
I woke at sunset, still naked but covered by a blanket. Skye handed me a tin cup
of stew, which I devoured hungrily.

“It’ll get cold now,” Skye commented,
observing the unbelievable sunset to the west. “Beautiful, isn’t it. This is
the greatest place in the world.”

“Bleakest, you mean,” I groused, little
moved by nature’s garish spectacle.

“It’s the place I chose,” Skye mused. “I’ve
never been sorry.”

“To each his own.”

The boy gave me a wry grin. “Yeah. But
sometimes it takes a long time to learn that.”

“How’d you get to be so smart?”

“Lots of suffering.”

“Yeah, sure. You look like you suffered daily
for all of what? Twenty years?”

“Things aren’t always the way they seem,”
Skye turned enigmatic. “You’re stronger, I think. You’ll be on your way
tomorrow. I’ll miss you.”

“You’re not going with me?” I asked in
amazement.

“No, I still have things to do here.”

“Where the hell do you live?”

The boy motioned to the west with his
chin, a touch of sadness hiding in the reflected hues of the dying sunset. “Over
there, but there’s a gas station down on the highway that’s closer.” Skye pointed
over his shoulder. “My brother, Karl, runs it. He’ll take care of you when you
get there.”

“So come with me and see your brother. Is
there bad blood between you or something?”

“Not any more.” Suddenly, the youth seemed
to cheer up. “But I’ll stay with you tonight. We’ll be together for a while
longer.”

I shivered suddenly and considered whether
I should put on my clothes. The boy seemed to read my thoughts.

“I used some of the water to rinse out
your things. They aren’t clean, but they’re not filthy like they were. Afraid
they’re not quite dry. But I’ve got an extra blanket,” he said, going to the
mysterious pack propped against the rocks that seemed to hold everything but
the proverbial kitchen sink.

Skye built a comfortable fire from the
pieces of cactus and desert wood he’d cut earlier in the day. Then as the fire
warmed the immediate vicinity, we took to the blankets and shared another bout
of love-making. I lay quiet, permitting him to set the agenda. He was
competent, tender, but I sensed he was somewhat withdrawn, even as he led me
through the most tremendous, the most stunning, the most satisfying intimate experience
I’d ever had.

*****

The
first time Vince met a twink in a bar, something was off about the kid. Like he
took Vince out on the desert for a good time, zonked him with a knockout drug,
and stole his pickup. Now he’s met another one, who saved him. But is all as it
seems? Next week, we learn the truth.

Now
my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on
writing. You have something to say, so say it!

Last
week we meet Vince Lozander, an ex-trucker meets Davy, a twink, in the Eagle
Bar, a bear place near the Continental Divide in western New Mexico.. They
strike up a conversation, and it soon becomes clear the younger man is looking to
hitch a ride. Vince wants to know a little more about him before deciding
whether to help out or not. They are still in the bar.Let’s see what gives.

*****

SPLENDID ISOLATION

I showed Davy the Blue Room with a blonde
UNM grad student and a smooth-skinned Navajo on the stage. Davy’s eyes bugged at
the tiny G-strings struggling to cover their privates. We found a couple of
seats, and I watched him with interest as he took in the show.

“I thought bears liked big, hairy boys,”
he said eventually, sounding like he had a catch in his throat. His eyes never
wavered from the two male bodies on the stage.

His eyes flicked to me momentarily, and he
swallowed hard. “You a bear? You don’t look like one. I mean,” he hastened to
add, “you don’t have a beard, and you’re not fat, and… Aw, I’m not saying this
right.”

“I’m big,” I said, playfully pumping my
biceps for him. “And I’ve got a rug under my shirt. I’m a bear, all right. All
the way.”

“I…” he faltered. “You may be big, but
you’re not fat.”

“Two eighty. But I try to keep it all
muscle.” I made a quick decision. Might as well introduce him to the rest of
the Eagle. “Come on. Show you something.”

“Where we going?”

“You wanna see bears, I’m gonna show you
bears.”

As we passed through the crimson door to
the Eagle Bar’s real den of iniquity, the kid stopped like he was
pole-axed. The Red Room is the action arena at the Continental Divide Eagle. Little
private alcoves lined the fringes, and sturdy backless divans occupied the
middle where men lounged like Romans at a feast. And it was a feast. Naked
bodies undulated in a tangle of erotic pleasure.

I grabbed Davy by the arm and led him to
one of the unoccupied alcoves. The kid followed along blindly, his head
swiveling to take in the action at the other sofas. He finally sat down beside
me as if in a daze, but he sure came alive when I touched him.

“Hey!” he exclaimed, brushing my hand away
and looking around wildly.

It took a moment to realize he didn’t
object to being handled; he just wasn’t comfortable doing it in public. Or
maybe he was just being coy.

“I always heard bears don’t go for guys
like me,” he said.

“Normally, I’d prefer the sergeant over
there doing his buddy. But sometimes a little change is exciting.”

“Don’t you have someplace private we can go?”

“We can get a room, I guess.”

“How about your truck? You’re a trucker, aren’t
you?”

“A week ago, I’d have said yes. But I sold
my rig and bought a pickup.”

“Can we use it?” he asked, but I sensed
disappointment.

The guy wanted to do it in the sleeping
space of a semi. I wondered how long that had been a secret dream of his. The
mental image of my six-four frame laid out in my pickup’s passenger compartment
brought a chuckle.

“The truck bed, maybe, but no way in the
cab. They’d have to use the Jaws of Life to pry us out.”

“That would be okay, wouldn’t it? The bed,
I mean. You can spread out, and I’ll make it good for you. I promise, Vince.”

“Doing it in public in the Red Room of the
Eagle Bar is one thing, kid. The back of a pickup in a public parking lot is
something else.”

“We can drive out to some place private,
can’t we? I really want to do you, Vince. I’ve never had a bear before.”

I motioned to the center of the room. “Let’s
go out there. You can have a cheering section all your own.”

“I…I can’t. Not with everyone watching.”

“Lots more comfortable here in the alcove.
Not so public.”

He glanced around doubtfully. “Uh-uh. Still
too many prying eyes.”

I sighed and got to my feet. “Okay. Let’s
go.”

“You won’t regret it, big guy.”

I’m not certain, but I think he flushed. Hard
to tell in a room full of red lights.

###

I blinked hard and glanced up into a
cloudless sky, wincing at the strength of the sun. Where the hell was I? This
was pure desert. What in the world had happened? I struggled to sit up,
surprised by the unexpected weakness I experienced. My trousers were down
around my ankles; my shirt was open. I’d apparently had a hell of a time before
something happened that left me lying half-naked in the desert sand.

I got uncertainly to my feet and pulled my
clothing into place, struggling to remember. Bits and pieces came back slowly. My
name was Vince Lozander. Thirty-five…no thirty-six. I’d had a birthday last
month. From Arkansas. Now on my way to San Diego. Sold my rig and bought a pickup.
My pickup! Where the hell was my Ram? I looked around wildly. I could see for
miles. High desert country. Nothing. No highway, no buildings…no pickup!

“Son of a bitch!” I cursed, beginning to
remember. I’d been at the Continental Divide Eagle Bar last night. Met somebody
new…a damned twink! Davy something or the other. We’d gone to the pickup
because he was too shy to get it on in the Red Room. Too shy my fuzzy ass! He’d
set me up.

I vaguely recalled driving a couple of
miles and pulling off I-40 into the evergreen forest that dotted the high
continental divide country. Then we’d got in the bed of the pickup and had a
romp on a couple of blankets. The kid had been as good as his word. And
then…and then….

Damn! He’d pulled a bottle out of the
backpack he’d grabbed at the door when we left the bar and offered me a drink. Thirsty
from all the action, I’d taken a big slug, and that’s the last thing I
remember.

Son of a bitch! I’d been carjacked! The
fucker was a crook. A criminal. That’s why he’d looked so disappointed when I
said I’d sold my rig. He was looking to heist a hundred thousand dollar
container, not a twenty-five thousand dollar pickup! Brazen little bastard had screwed
me… and not in a good way!

It smarted a little that a pipsqueak I
outweighed by a hundred pounds had not only dared take me on; he’d also
succeeded. He’d doped my ass, rolled me out of the bed of my Dodge, and
abandoned me in the middle of the desert. I took another look around. I was
probably still in New Mexico. The horizon didn’t have the look of the Arizona
Sonoran Desert. Wasn’t the malpais or lava tube country around Grants either. The
bastard likely headed back toward Albuquerque and then turned south off the
Interstate at one of the exits. Shit! Just plain shit! Wait until I caught up
with the little twink!

That thought hauled me up short. Hey, man,
this might be serious. The desert is a deadly place. And here I was in the
middle of this desolation without water, without a windbreaker for the cold
night, without cover from the blistering sun. Had he left me to die or just
tucked me away somewhere nearby to give himself a lead?

With a sigh, I closed my eyes and called
upon the reserves that had served me over the last ten years of long-distance
trucking…my inner strength. After a moment of intense concentration, I felt
power flow back into my limbs. I was shrugging off the effects of the
drug…whatever the hell it had been.

Then I looked around the immediate
vicinity. There were tire tracks all over the place. What the hell had gone on?
Then I understood. Davy had driven around tearing up the countryside to make it
harder to follow his tracks back out.

Taking an oblique look at the sun, I
calculated north, assuming that was the direction I-40 lay. Pissed but not yet
worried, I struck out in that direction. By noon, my tongue was swollen, and what
little saliva I could bring up was thick with mucus. I hadn’t encountered a
living thing except an occasional buzzard wheeling about in the sky, a placid Gila
monster, and a huge, ill-tempered rattlesnake. Was every creature in this
God-forsaken place sinister?

The oppressive, ever-present, overwhelming
heat soon chased all other concerns from my consciousness. My skin felt as if it
were cracking. I recalled reading that certain desert succulents were sources
of water, but when I stomped one likely-looking spiny plant to a pulp, the small
amount of revolting moisture it held convinced me it wasn’t one of those.

Forgetting about snakes and other
poisonous creatures, I propped my head against a stone at nightfall and fell to
sleep instantly. I woke freezing to death and vainly tried to warm myself by
igniting the few dried plants revealed by the moonlight. As I shivered against
the cold and listened to the far-off, lonely cry of some creature with a voice…probably
a coyote. It made more sense to travel by night to keep warm and rest by day in
the shade of anything that cast a shadow.

Deliriously happy when the morning sun broke
the eerie loneliness of the night, I was cursing the burning orb two hours
later. Every scrap of rare shade was host to a bunch of creatures unhappy over sharing
space. Lizards and snakes and scorpions make poor neighbors. Unable to sit
still, I staggered off cross-country again, taking step after painful step
until I finally collapsed. By the end of that second day, I was on my last legs.
As I drifted off into unconsciousness in the freezing night air, the
realization I might not see the sunrise didn’t bother me a bit.

*****

A
twink in a bear bar. What could go wrong? Lots, apparently. We see the
desolation, but when does it get to be “splendid?” Maybe next week.

Now
my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on
writing. You have something to say, so say it!

Thank
you for putting up with my personal grief last week. Your indulgence helped me
a great deal.

This
week, I’d like to get back to some fiction. The following is a short story in
four parts, each installment a bit long for a post, but once again I ask you to
stay with me.

By
the way, I return to the Eagle Bar on the Continental Divide for the first part
of this story. You may recall that readers were introduced to the bear bar by
BJ Vinson, the protagonist in my second book in the BJ Vinson mystery series, The Bisti Business.

*****

SPLENDID ISOLATION

I-40 West out of Albuquerque climbed to a
bright blue sky for nine straight miles, and then more or less kept its head up
all the way to the Continental Divide in western New Mexico. I’d trucked it so
many times, I could handle it with my eyes closed, and over the last ten years
might well have done just that once or twice. But now my bobtail was gone, and
I was wrangling a brand new Dodge Ram extended cab three-quarter ton. Felt
funny going cross-country without looking down from a rig on ordinary citizens
in four-wheelers and pickups. Heck, now I was one of them guys.

I set my cruise control and thumbed my
nose at all the plain wrappers and blue wrappers and county Mounties that used
to give me goose bumps. There’s a little less tension when there’s not a load for
the tin-toters and DT’s to check. I could drive twenty-four hours straight, and
it wasn’t nobody’s business…unless I got foolish and wiped up the road with my
new wheels. Took some getting used to. The first two days out, I automatically
started checking my back door when I came up on ten hours of straight driving. I
guess it comes down to once a trucker, always a trucker.

The other side of that’s true, too. Once a
bear, always a bear. So the first roadside billboard for Chesty Westey’s Truck
Stop advertising fuel, mechanics, clean rooms, hot showers, and anything else a
tired trucker might crave revved my motor a little. The second, ten miles down
the road, highlighted TiaMaria’s Homestyle Cooking, and
everything they claimed about it was true. Pure ‘Grandma’ cooking, and it
didn’t matter if your grandma was named Lucy or Amée or Sooky or Esther or
Wu…old Marie Tuxburry whipped up meals like all of them.

The last sign was a garish plug for the
Continental Divide Eagle Bar that sprawled beyond the arroyo behind the truck
stop. The filling station and café and mini motel that came before were merely lures
to the gigantic bear den where truckers and bikers and military men co-existed
like bosom buddies, not the natural adversaries they were. What made the difference?
The bar, of course. Or more accurately, the bears that hibernated there.

Nobody’s ever been able to adequately define
a bear for me. For every hairy hulk, I can show you one without a pelt. For
every beer belly, I can show you a waist thick with muscles. For every giant, I
can locate a midget. It’s the attitude, I think. A good-buddy,
live-and-let-live philosophy most of us possess. Now, sometimes, something can
upset that formula, like too much alcohol or a roving cub…or even a woman now
and then. But at Chesty Westey’s, the Peterbuilts nuzzle Hogs flanked by Jeeps
as peaceably as their navigators get along behind its adobe walls.

After I’d washed up and topped off the gas
tank at the truck stop, I pushed through the heavy front doors of the Eagle. The
blue wall of smoke parted like the Red Sea as I crossed the threshold and then
swirled to enfold me in the comfortable miasma of the den…men, alcohol, chicken
fried steaks, and sex. I was home. In the momentary blindness of the deep gloom,
the rumble of conversation, clink of glass, and throaty laughter of bar-maids rendered
me deaf. Constant, shadowed, undulating motion made me think of a vast boiling
cauldron.

As a veteran, I knew enough to detour to
the left of the big double doors to pay court to the shapeless mass of black flesh
decked out in cotton field-blue bib overalls that must have been cut out of a
tent.

“Sweetie,” I addressed the Queen of Sheba
who had managed the joint for as long as I had been coming here on
cross-country hauls. I suspected most people figured this gargantuan hulk came
by his name by virtue of his high-pitched voice and outrageous feminine
mannerisms; I happened to know, it was a corruption of the dude’s last name,
Sweetwater.

The shining ebony mound quivered, gave a
loud gasp, and flashed an ivory smile that reminded me of a chipped keyboard. “Vince
Lozander!” he shrieked. “As I live and breathe! Where have you been, you luscious
mass of man muscle? Sit your bear ass down right here and bring Sweetie up to
date!”

Sliding into a chair behind a ridiculously
small table, I complied. “I threw in the towel, Sweetie. Sold the old bobtail. Got
tired of dodging Mounties and alligators and the Transportation dicks.”

The black raisins that served as the man’s
eyes glittered. “You send all them Transportation dicks you don’t want old Sweetie’s
way. I take care of them for you.”

“Now, Sweetie, you know I mean dicks as in
pricks…not as in dongs.”

The manager gave a shrill giggle. “All the
same to me, honey. But what you gonna do with your cute ass if it ain’t riding
the saddle?”

“Opening a produce store near San Diego. Been
hauling the stuff for years, so now I’ll let it haul me all the way to retirement.”

“Gonna miss your pretty face in this old
cave. You better haul ass back here now and then to keep up with your buds.”

“Sweetie, you’re the only person in the
world who considers me pretty. Now bring me up to date on everybody.”

The man absently stroked his long, grey-flecked
Methuselah beard as he gave me news on truckers he knew were important to me,
people like Tree Trunk Martone, Hillbilly Dawson, and Pardo Folsom. Half an
hour, a gallon of beer, and a bucket of sweat later—Sweetie would sweat at the North
Pole—he finished his newscast.

“Anything new and interesting?”

Sweetie rolled his eyes and pursed his
chocolate pudding lips, motioning across the cavernous expanse of the bar’s main
room, merely one of the many in the meandering adobe building. “I’m trying to
figure that one out. He don’t belong.”

My gaze fixed on a young man who, from
this distance, appeared to be a twink…a creature ill-fitted to a bear den like
this. “What’s his story?”

“Dunno. He wandered in around noon and been
cadging drinks ever since. But he’s sly about it. At first he bought his own,
but when he flashed an empty wallet, the guys started springing. These
sweethearts can’t stand to see a man run dry…know what I mean?”

“Yeah.” And I did. This cave’s denizens didn’t
go for leaches, but they were quick to help a guy down on his luck. Wondering
what tale the kid was feeding them, I lumbered to my feet. “Gonna make the
rounds now, Sweetie. Catch you later.”

“Behave,” he gave his customary
benediction.

With a mug of fresh beer in hand, I
circulated, talking to a few good-buddies and meeting new ones. Trading blue
blazers with this bunch passed some pleasant time. Eventually, I confronted the
young stranger Sweetie had pointed out. Up close, he was pretty, saved from
being girlish by an intriguing Adam’s apple. He was definitely a fish out of
water. A smoothie in a bear den was apt to be tossed out on his ear. The kid’s
blond thatch wasn’t a military haircut, but he could have been an underclassman
at UNM who wandered in from Albuquerque by mistake. On impulse, I stuck out my
hand. He met my grip and tried to leverage it, but he was no match for my big
mitt. He couldn’t have stood more than five-ten and weighed one-seventy or less.
Downright puny. Of course, his body had more definition than anyone else in the
joint, including the Air Force MPs from Kirtland and the grunts from Fort
Huachuca over in Arizona. Maybe he aspired to be one of those male dancers they
had in the Blue Room but was too shy to ask Sweetie for a job. For some screwy
reason the bears I know like their men big and beefy, and probably with lots of
hair, but they go nuts cheering slender-hipped boy dancers on weekends.

“Vince Lozander,” I offered.

“Davy,” he responded with a boyish grin. “Davy
Winston.”

“What brings you to the Eagle?” I asked
affably.

“Hitching, and I thought the truck stop
looked interesting.”

“Bet you didn’t know it was a bear den. Must
have been a shock when you came through the door.”

He laughed aloud, lighting up his
good-looking face. “Especially when I ran into that big black gorilla guarding
the door. Thought for a minute he wasn’t gonna let me in. Looked at my driver’s
license real hard.”

“Sweetie manages the place, and he takes
his job very seriously. You don’t have a glass in your hand. What’re you
drinking?”

I bought a pitcher and led the kid through
the main bar into one of the side rooms where the noise level was a decibel or
two lower and the smoke cloud was a mite thinner. We found an unoccupied table
and settled in. In a nutshell, Davy was thumbing his way to California to visit
a college buddy. He’d left Texas after the car plant where he was working cut
production. “Outsourced,” he announced with a nose wrinkled in disdain.

It was soon obvious he was fishing for a
ride, but I wasn’t ready to commit. Now if he had another fifty pounds and a
mat of fur, he’d already be in the cab of my pickup. Still, there was something
about the good-looking fucker that intrigued…an air about him. There was a
mystery here yet to be revealed.

*****

A
twink in a bear bar. What could go wrong?

Now
my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on
writing. You have something to say, so say it!

Thursday, May 2, 2019

There
were a lot page views and some comments on last week’s “Wally and Me” posting.
Some people liked it while others felt it was a downer. Me? I just thought it
was life.

This
week, I ask your leave to say goodbye to treasured real life
friend. Without further ado, I’ll let the post speak for me.

*****

TO BOBBI

I met Bobbi ten
years ago in a writing class at the Bear Canyon Center, the very class that I
now co-host at the North Domingo Multigenerational Center. I walked into the
classroom—open to anyone then as now—and took a vacant seat beside a tall
blonde. She was busy talking to someone but soon introduced herself as Bobbi.
What an inauspicious beginning to such a firm and lasting friendship. She
didn’t know it at the time, but I had recently lost my wife after a four-month
battle with pneumonia. She must have sensed something, because she latched onto
the emotionally depleted stranger and never let go… until Easter Sunday of this
year. But that comes later.

Bobbi originally
hailed from Gallup, New Mexico where she was a rebellious member of a prominent
family. She left home at her earliest opportunity and became a United Airlines
stewardess—I guess they’re called “hostesses” these days. She retired from
United and for a time piloted (yes, she was also a pilot) transport aircraft into
hostile areas as a contract carrier for the US Defense Department. So by the
time I met her, she had virtually been all over the world.

When I talked of
my trips to Hong Kong, she topped them with much more adventurous stories of
the colony. When I told her about Macau, she’d been there and won more money
than I had lost at the gaming tables. When I told about my years in the army in
what was then West Germany, she’d been to every place I had visited and all
over the rest of Europe, as well. She was brimming with great stories based on
her travels, hence her participation in the writing class.

She did publish a
few of the stories, but soon became swept up in other activities like the
Albuquerque Police Department’s and the Bernalillo County Sheriff’s Citizen’s
Academies, and for good measure, the FBI’s equivalent course. She reveled in
the firing range sessions and the ride-along nights. Her politics tended to
waver now and then, but never her support for law enforcement. She volunteered
every Thursday at APD’s crime lab on North Second Street.

And then there was
the Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta. Early October was taken up by
volunteer work for the fiesta. She acted as a guide for puzzled tourists, ferried
police and fiesta officials around the huge park, and even worked with Homeland
Security to guard against bombers and other terrorists. I believe this was
truly where her heart lay.

In the meantime,
she took care of her family. Although she was married and divorced two times,
she had no children. No human children, that is. But she did have a family of
six dogs and three birds. The cockatoo squawked a lot, one canary sang at the
drop of a hat, and the other took lots of baths. At one time, she also had a
pet turtle that came to her when called. That one, I never met.

But her real
children were the dogs, all of them rescue animals. Even though I became great
friends with each one, I couldn’t begin to tell you what kind of dogs they
were, except for describing them as small, happy, and yappy when someone showed
up at the front door.

But they were not
the only vagabonds she took in. A few years back, when I fell and injured my
back, she saw me through the resulting operation and then took me into her home
for close onto three months while I recovered.

Bobbi’s life had
been plagued by health problems as well as adventures. Years before I met her, she
had breast cancer, resulting in mastectomies. She had other infirmities as well
but refused to allow them to get in the way of living. Not even when she was
diagnosed with bone cancer a year and a half ago, something called JAX and MLS (if memory serves). She took the chemo and kept
to her schedule, even when she was not feeling all that well. As the disease
wore down her immune system, she was advised to avoid crowds. Although she took
precautions, she continued to live her life as usual, including six days of
volunteer work at last October’s Balloon Fiesta and her weekly volunteer day at
the crime lab.

I went with Bobbi
to most of her oncology visits and was there when they increased her chemo after
her weekly blood tests began to escalate. I was with her last March when the
doctor reviewed her latest blood chemistry and declared it as unsatisfactory
but not alarming.

I generally phoned
Bobbi after the 10:00 p.m. news and did so on Saturday the 20th. I started off
by asking what kind of day she had. She might have put up a front with others,
but she was usually frank with me. She told me she had a good day. No headache
(she was subject to ferocious ones at times). She had worked in the yard and
probably overdid it. Tired, but otherwise okay.

Easter Sunday, I
decided not to call her because of the good report the previous evening. Around
11:15 that night, Rhonda, another close friend of Bobbi’s, called and asked if
I had talked to Bobbi that day. She was worried because she hadn’t been able to
reach Bobbi. After talking it over, Rhonda decided to call the county sheriff’s
office and request a wellness visit. I told her to tell the dispatcher I would
meet the deputies at the house to let them in with my key.

When I arrived,
the house was dark, which was alarming. Her home has both a doorbell and a
voice call button. I always used the call button. No response, except from the dogs,
which were still in the living area, not back in the bedroom where they
normally slept. I knew something was wrong, but I waited for the deputies
before entering the house.

I did my best to
keep the dogs in the living area while the deputies searched the house. They
found Bobbi dead in a bathroom just off the kitchen area. I called Rhonda who
said she was on her way from her home in Los Lunas, south of Albuquerque. OMI
(Office of the Medical Inspector) arrived and asked us questions about her
health and her doctors. Then the woman told us Bobby had been gone for at least
twelve hours, but in her opinion, death had been quick.

Rhonda stayed to
care for the dogs, but I remained only until OMI took her from the house. Then
I left and said goodbye to a wonderful woman and fantastic friend as I wept
while driving home. I arrived around 2:00 a.m. to spend a sleepless night
thinking about life without Bobbi…poverty-stricken by her absence, yet rich
with memories of her.

*****

Sort
of strange that I made Bobby the narrator of the “Wally and Me” posts, and now
I am saying goodbye to a flesh and blood Bobbi. Thank
you for letting me express my feelings for this extraordinary woman who
enriched my life.

Now
my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on
writing. You have something to say, so say it!

Thursday, April 25, 2019

Well,
what did you think of last week’s post? Any guesses about this one? Part 1
ended with someone falling from the cliff at Webber’s Lake. Shall we see what
happened?

*****

WALLY
AND ME

I paced my room for the next couple of days, unable to
sleep or read or watch TV… anything. Calls stacked up on my cell phone, but I didn’t
have the courage to answer them. All I could do was relive the moment a body fell
from the cliff and my absolute premonition it was Wally. The deputy determined
everyone had been drinking, and some of the boys were horsing around wrestling
near the edge of the cliff to see who’d chicken out first.

Wally had lost his footing and slipped over the edge
unexpectedly, dropping straight down into the shallows. Broke his neck, the
medics said. Each time I heard that diagnosis, a loud crack rang in my head and
a pain played up and down my back. But mostly, I was empty. Mom had to force me
to eat, and most of it wouldn’t stay down. When they talked about going to the
viewing, my blood ran cold and I shrank inside myself. I refused to get in the
car.

In private, I cried like a baby, remembering the times we
were babies and boys and adolescents.
Thinking how good it felt to throw my arm around his shoulders, or better yet,
when he laid an arm over mine and talked in my ear like nobody else in the
world mattered as much as me.

My mother spent a lot of time over at the Hamners, helping
Wally’s mom through her grief, I guess. Dad suggested I go over, but I
couldn’t. My muscles froze. My skin crawled. All I could do was shake my head.

I got away with it until the funeral. My dad insisted I
put on a suit and get in the car with them for the drive to the funeral home.
The place was packed, but the Hamners had reserved seats for us near the family.
I kept my eyes down as we walked the aisle to our place. Then I glanced up and
caught sight of the coffin, which was nothing but a steel box where you’d be locked
in the dark from now until eternity. My muscles gave way, dumping me onto the
pew. I swallowed a sob.

I thought the service would never end. Mrs. Hamner cried
and Mr. Hamner kept taking off his glasses and wiping his eyes with a
handkerchief. I sat dry-eyed. You have to feel something to cry, and I didn’t
feel anything. The hymns almost got to me a couple of times, but only because they
weren’t the ones Wally would have chosen. He’d want Elvis crooning “Hound Dog”
over him, or Johnny Cash roaring about a “Ring of Fire.”

When it was over, the ushers sent everybody to the front
to take a final look at Wally. The family, which seemed to include us, were
last, and there wasn’t any way I could get out of it with my dad’s hand on my
back propelling me forward. But it wasn’t as bad as I’d thought it would be
because it wasn’t Wally lying there in a suit and tie. He looked too peaceful.
And Wally hadn't been peaceful. He was on edge, excited, alive! Every day in every
way.

Then we did it all over again at the cemetery, except the
coffin was closed, so I didn’t have to look every which way to keep from
staring at the Wally who wasn’t Wally. I remained staid and stolid until
they started lowering him into the ground. Then I went to wait by the car where
I marveled that the sun still shone and the clouds still billowed overhead and
the breeze blew fresh on my face. I never noticed things like that unless Wally
mentioned them, and he’d been lots more aware of our surroundings than I was.
But all those things were still here even if Wally wasn’t. That’s when I said
goodbye to him.

Once the crowd broke up and we were back in our car, dad
looked over his shoulder at me in the back seat of the Oldsmobile. “That wasn’t
so bad, was it?”

I shook my head.

“I know you don’t appreciate it now, son, but you’ll
always be grateful that you went to pay your respects at his laying away.”

I nodded, my throat too dry to speak.

My folks insisted I go next door with
them to the Hamners’ after we got home. Everyone was gathering there to eat and
talk and lend sympathy and support to Wally’s parents.

I felt like someone slapped me on the back of the head when
I saw Mrs. Hamner talking to the neighbors who lived on the other side like
nothing had happened. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but otherwise she seemed
normal. I spotted Wally’s dad talking to the pastor and smiling. Somebody
laughed in a corner of the room, and a line of people waited to fill paper plates
like it was the Fourth of July picnic all over again. Some of the football team,
who’d been on the bluff that day, stood in another corner talking to girls.

I reeled back against my father, my mind screaming. What
was the matter with these people? They’re all acting like it’s a holiday. But
it isn’t. It’s the day we buried Wally!

A sob I couldn’t stop escaped me, catching Mrs. Hamner’s
attention. The moment she started toward me, I bolted, almost knocking down the
choir director on my way out the door. I made it to the front fender of the
Oldsmobile parked in our driveway before the tears broke loose, blinding me. I
hunched over the hot metal and let the sobs wrack my body like blows from a cat
o’ nine tails.

After a while, I heard footsteps. I swiped away enough
tears to make out it wasn’t my mom. It was Mrs. Hamner. I backed away,
murmuring, “No… no.”

She folded me in her ample arms and pressed my head to
her shoulder. “It’s all right, Bobby. It’s all right.”

I fought her momentarily, but she pressed me back to her
shoulder. “It’s my fault,” I whispered. “My fault.”

“You get that wretched thought out of your head right
now, Bobby Twillinger. It was no such thing.”

“I-I thought you’d blame me because I didn’t go… go with
him.”

She held me at arm’s length and stared into my tear-devastated
face. “Maybe you should blame me because I didn’t stop him from going. Or his
dad.”

“I-I—”

“Do you know what made Wally who he was?”

I closed my eyes and shook my head.

“His spirit of adventure. His daring nature. His willingness
to try things.”

With a shudder, I nodded.

“And do you know what kept him grounded. Kept him here
with us as long as he was? You. He loved you like a brother, Bobby. Everyone
thought he was a wild kid. In a way, he was. But do you know why he wasn’t out
of control? Because he listened to you. Most of the time. And he was a better
boy… man for it.”

Clinging together for support, we bawled unashamedly
while the sun Wally and I had shared and the blue sky we both admired beamed
down on us as if nothing had happened. In the cosmos, perhaps nothing had. But
in our reality, the world had fallen off its axis. Our task now was to put it
back in place. Not an easy thing to do.

The next day, Mr. Hamner came to the door and asked for me. When I appeared, he pressed something into my fist. I turned the key to the old Ford convertible I'd ridden in a thousand time over in my hand and stared up at him.
"Wally would have wanted you to have it."
I swallowed hard and thanked him before he turned and walked down the driveway. Something happened to my heart as I watched him go. I saw my dead friend as he would have been twenty years from now. A good man. Generous. Strong. Quiet, his wild days firmly behind him.
I would drive that car until the wheels came off, until like the one-horse shay of lore and legend, it gave up the ghost. After all, it was the last tangible connection between Wally and me.

*****

Did
you ever lose anyone when you were young? Not easy, is it? Sometimes we try to
take the guilt for mishaps and even deaths upon ourselves when there’s no
reason. I hope Bobby can put guilt aside and go on to live his life in full…
remembering his childhood friend and enjoying the experiences they shared.

Now
my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on
writing. You have something to say, so say it!